Balancing Together
In the Acrobat Sutta, the Buddha presents a simple yet striking image: two acrobats performing a balancing act, one standing on the shoulders of the other. The teacher says to the student, “You look after me, and I’ll look after you. If we protect one another, we’ll perform our tricks, earn a reward, and come down safely.”
The Buddha gently reimagines the scene. “It is not in watching after the other that one protects the other,” he says. “By watching after oneself, one protects the other and by watching after the other, one also protects oneself.”
It’s one of those teachings that appears straightforward on the surface, yet subtly revolutionary beneath.
This teaching, like the acrobats themselves, relies on balance. It is not a call to selfishness, nor a command to self-sacrifice. Instead, it hints at something subtler: that caring for ourselves and caring for others are not opposites. They are interconnected. When I am stable, grounded, and inwardly resourced, I become a safer presence for you. And by truly attending to you, I often return to myself.
From the perspective of modern mind science, we can understand how this functions. The brain is a prediction-making system, constantly scanning for signals of safety or danger. Our nervous systems don’t just respond to the environment; they also shape it. In every interaction, whether in therapy, in family life, or among friends, we influence each other’s predictions. How I breathe, listen, and create space for your words affects the sense of safety in our shared moment.
Therapists often perform this delicate dance. We are trained to observe our clients’ affect but also to monitor our own, because if we lose contact with our breath, body, or boundaries, we can subtly disappear. We become reactive, distant, or overly involved. Looking after ourselves doesn’t mean withdrawing; it means staying regulated enough to remain present.
The sutta also reminds us of the other side of the equation: in holding space for someone else with genuine care, we may find our inner landscape softening. Something regulated in me meets something dysregulated in you—and in that meeting, both of us grow. Both of us find balance.
This isn’t merely theory. It’s experienced in everyday moments:
A parent who settles themselves while comforting a distressed child.
A therapist who detects a knot of tension and relaxes their jaw as a client cries.
A friend who, without needing to fix anything, walks quietly beside someone in grief.
In each instance, we are not selecting between self and other. We are balancing together: co-regulating, adapting, and gently rewiring.
The Buddha’s image encourages us to stay in that middle space, between over-identifying and vanishing. Between attachment and apathy. Between collapse and mastery. It’s a fragile space. We often slip out of it. We overreach. We go numb. We forget. But the path isn’t perfection, it’s about returning.
Return to the breath.
Return to the body.
Return to the calm, attentive presence that holds both you and me.
When I attend to my mind and nervous system, I become safer for you to be near. When I hold space for you with patience and care, I remember what steadies me.
We balance together.
You can also read this post on our Substack journal, Unfolding.